Shards of Sunlight
by ncfan
Summary: Celebrimbor and a three-month-old Celebrían, by the shores of Nenuial. Soul-searching ensues. Again.


I own nothing.

* * *

The shores of Nenuial are as clear as glass even in the afternoon, and seem to hold a special fascination for little girls. Or perhaps just the little girl who sits at its stony shores now, splashing her hands in the water, trying in vain to catch the curious little fish that swim up to the edge of the water, staring up at the little round face that peers down upon them.

"You seem to have inherited a certain familial fascination with shiny things, Celebrían," Celebrimbor mutters, sitting a little ways back and watching her, arms propped on his knees. "I suppose it was only inevitable. After all, your uncle Finrod had the Dwarrows make him this very lovely jeweled necklace that he absolutely refused to take off; it was a wonder Orodreth could make him leave it behind when he went off with Beren. And you've been spending so much time around me, and we all know how my grandfather felt about certain shiny things. It must have rubbed off."

Celebrían, predictably, ignores him, but what can you expect from a three-month-old child?

As much as little Celebrían's parents adore her (and they _do_; Celebrimbor had no idea Celeborn could get so starry-eyed over anything, let alone a child), they do have their duties in governing the settlement by the shores of Nenuial. And as much as Celebrimbor has his own duties, sometimes Celebrían must be watched, and he is the only one who can do it. And this is in no way his way of getting out of replacing all of the broken hinges that Nandorin blacksmith sold them last month, _whatever _the smiths serving under him might think, though if Celebrimbor ever sees him again he might have to do something violent to the charlatan. Celebrimbor just happens to enjoy Celebrían's company almost as much as her parents do.

The light of the Sun glistens through the gaps in the clouds, falls in shards over the surface of the water and in Celebrían's hair, silver like her father's. A short, stiff breeze, typical of summer (heavy and full of rain) whips over the grass, blows Celebrimbor's fine dark hair over his face. He sweeps it away with an absent hand.

It had so amazed Celebrimbor to watch Galadriel's stomach swell, to watch how calmly she handled the business of being with child, how calmly she handled the business of being the mother of an infant. Galadriel has always seemed utterly unassailable to him, unable to be truly afraid, but she was just so calm… If Celebrimbor had a wife, and she was about to have a child, he does not think he would be so calm.

_Oh, stop pacing, _Celeborn had said to him, caught between irritation and amusement and sympathy, the sort of tone he often took with him. _Anyone would think that this was _your _child being born, not mine. Do you really think that Galadriel is the sort to die in childbirth? She is too strong for that._

_Well, maybe I've heard stories, _Celebrimbor had responded, abashed and shaken all at once. Maybe he knew how his great-grandmother had died, even if he never knew _her_, he had thought, but not said.

Ah, well. That is over and done with, Galadriel has teased him mightily after hearing her husband's report of his behavior, and now, little Celebrían is already possessed with the energy of a child three times her age. Here she is, trying to catch the iridescent fish of the Nenuial with her bare hands.

As he watches her, his mind wanders. Celebrimbor thinks of all the work that still awaits him in the city, beyond those defective hinges the Nandorin charlatan sold them. Horseshoes and knives and nails. Gates and locks and pokers for fireplaces. Cauldrons and plates and cogs. Arrowheads for the fletchers. And keys. Oh, Elbereth, keys. All these things and more, the burgeoning settlement needs (_And when we inevitably pick up and move to some other location, we'll just start all over again_), and it falls to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the only smith's guild in the settlement, to make them. This they do, this Celebrimbor does, because the settlement _needs _these things and it's not like there's anyone else around to produce them. But the constant stream of work keeps him away from gem-smithing, Celebrimbor's only true love in smith-work. _But it's not as though you will find many gems for working here in this place. Perhaps it would be best for me to get used to making "useful" things, rather than "shiny" things._

Celebrimbor wonders if Elrond is ever going to answer his letters inviting him to at least visit the settlement beside the shores of Nenuial. Yes, they were personal letters and not official missives, and yes, he knows that Elrond has a great deal of work to do as one of Gil-Galad's officials, but surely his cousin could at least _answer _one of his letters. Celebrimbor starts to wonder if he isn't going to have to go back to Mithlond to see if Elrond hasn't died since he left the city, and no one's bothered to tell him.

_Ah, cousin, are you hiding from your life again, using your work as a shield?_

_Am I?_

That is the question he asks himself, sometimes, in the morning before dawn, when a faint gray-golden light pushes at the window and Celebrimbor can't sleep. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, and wonders about his life. Wonders about the fact that he seems to have precious little of one beyond his work.

In Lindon, it was a bit better. He discussed business with Gil-Galad. He tried to coax Elrond into being somewhat more sociable of an Elf than he was, instead of constantly staring out westwards, perhaps towards the Undying Lands, perhaps towards Númenor. It bothered Celebrimbor, worried him, for reasons entirely too personal to air aloud.

There was not quite as much work to do. They were not building a city from the foundations up. Mithlond had already existed even before the breaking of Beleriand. Celebrimbor had not so much work there, and he dreaded the empty moments, dreaded the moments when he had absolutely nothing to do, and his mind would wander backwards into the past.

As much as he did not want to, does not want to, as much as he tries not to let the past rule him, it's where Celebrimbor will go in mind if he lets himself. It's where he always goes, if he lets down his guard.

_I should set my eyes towards the future. I should not let myself be dragged down by the shadows of the past. _Celebrimbor's hand strays towards the brooch holding his tunic shut at the throat, taps the rays of the star with his fingertips. Why is the past so tempting? It hurts to remember, and it does him no profit, to remind any of his connection to his kin. Why, then, does it tempt him so?

"Ah, Celebrían!"

Celebrían is perilously close to getting a firsthand demonstration in how difficult it is for tiny children to swim. So dedicated is she in her quest for glittering fish that she's about to go toddle out into the waters of the lake, and Celebrimbor was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he did not notice.

"I want!" she cries petulantly as Celebrimbor scoops her away from the edge of the water and sits her down on his lap in the grass.

Celebrimbor laughs a little unsteadily. "I know you want them, sweetheart, but if you come home with muddy feet and muddy dress, your mother will skin me alive. And if I live, your father will never let us play together again." An exaggeration perhaps, but one Celebrimbor thinks he's entitled to. "So maybe we should leave the fish alone for today, hmm?"

In all honesty, Celebrimbor isn't sure how much Celebrían understands when he talks to her. There are those who insist that a child as young as her can comprehend everything that is said to them, but he's really not buying it. _He _didn't understand most of what was being said around him until he was past thirty, and to be honest, there's still a great deal he doesn't understand. There's still a great deal that he doesn't feel adult enough to understand. But however much Celebrían does or does not understand, she seems to have gotten the gist of his words. She leans around his side and points up the gentle slope. "Flowers," she says imperiously.

_My, she already has her mother's tone of voice down perfectly._

Celebrimbor smiles down at her. "Flowers it is, Celebrían."

They'll have to head back towards the settlement soon. The day is grayer than it is blue and those clouds are only growing more leaden with each passing minute. But as long as there's still some shard of sunlight peering through the gaps in the clouds, it should be fine to stay out here. Celebrimbor prays that he will still be able to see that.

* * *

Nenuial—Sindarin for 'Lake of Twilight'; the remark about it being 'clear as glass even in the afternoon' is just Celebrimbor trying to be smart.

**Note**: Since Elf-children are supposed to be able to sing and dance at one year old, I don't think it's all that implausible that they could be walking (if unsteadily) and talking by three months.


End file.
